Shadowed Flight
by tami3
Summary: Glenn is trying to establish himself as his own person and get out of his brother's shadow, but Dario is determined to save him from the brink of a corrupt life. Got rid of 2 mismatching style chapters. (The two chapters will be reposted seperately.)
1. Chapter 1

Shadowed Flight- Chapter 1, Stay Down  
  
Tightly wound curls streamed past a triangular, kittenish face as the young woman reeled backwards, recoiling from violent heavy kick that had caught her in the stomach. Her armor had prevented her from getting the wind knocked out of her after being slammed by a steel plated boots, but the resulting reverberating of the breastplate left her stomach churning and her lower abdomen into something similar to muscle fatigue. She didn't like the feeling. It hurt. And she didn't like the person that gave it to her. He was going to hurt.  
  
"BASTARD!!!" her shriek rose to the shrill pitch of a banshee's and instantly shattered the eardrums of anyone within a 5-meter radius of her.  
  
There was only one person, but the keening battle cry was enough to send a tingle of shock through his body and upset the firm grip he had on his weapon's hilt. He recovered and secured his hold on his sword, taking a few tentative steps forward towards the buxom harpy clutching a javelin in covered hands, the intimidating spear absurd against the dainty lace. Her creamy kid leather gloves, more suited for keeping a lady's hands smooth than insuring a grasp on a metal pole handle, clenched in irate distraction around the pole handle.  
  
Glenn wasn't exactly pleased with his first opponent in the tournament, but there hadn't been any way for him to complain. The drawings had been entirely random. Or so they had said. After all, who could justify setting him up with a little girl probably a year his junior and almost a foot shorter than him? He had known right off that she posed little of a threat, being so diminutive that her ridiculously disproportioned lance dragged in the muck of the pit, but there were other issues to deal with.  
  
Glenn noticed her crouched stance, the tension in her hunched body an obvious clue to the building up of momentum for an attack. From the way she was hoisting the hefty rod up gave way to the possibility of a jump and skewer maneuver. He was surprised by how quickly the redhead teenager opposite of him had forgotten the basics of fighting. Subtlety was the key to throwing off your enemy. He bent his knees slightly in preparation to slide out of the way and behind her when she did spring on him, so he could take advantage of her confusion and send her sprawling in the mud.  
  
Misinterpretation can be a fatal mistake.  
  
"AAAAAAHHHH!" A high, echoing scream rendered Glenn numb as the young women flung her spear to the side and leapt on him, fingers bared. His sword flashed as it was wrenched out of his hand and nestled itself in the thick folds of mire.  
  
/This can't be happening to me./ Glenn was barely aware of what he was thinking before he felt sculpted fingernails tearing grooves down the side of his face.  
  
***  
  
"Sir, that is not a legal move!" Dario's usually mild voice rose to a tone of complaint. He squinted at the scene unfolding in the arena below, where Glenn had collapsed, facedown, due to what appeared to be a release of intense humiliation. Even as a thousand spectators drew in a collective breath of astonishment, punctuated by a series of noticeable giggles, the seemingly delicate girl clambered onto Glenn's back and began intertwining her hands with his hair, bloodied by parallel gashes oozing red on the side of his face.  
  
/I have to make Glenn cut his hair. / Dario observed as the young women made sudden, jerky movements with her gauntleted arm. His little brother's hair was short compared to Karsh's, but the length of his burned-wheat bangs was graspable enough for his opponent's jeweled fingers. The gems of the girl's rings scintillated in the sun as Glenn, spitting out mud, lethargically tried to pry the scarlet-tipped hold of petite death off his scalp.  
  
"Again, sir. . ."  
  
General Viper didn't even look up from the tablet where his pen was noting the exact happenings of the comical match.  
  
"Actually, nowhere is it noted in the rules that pulling hair, clawing, and other such taboo methods ratifies deduction or disqualification. I believe that the tournament statutes were written when dragoons were mainly men, and that it was thought personal pride was sufficient to prevent such cheap practices. Now that more and more women are nominating themselves for recruitment, I suppose we really should be more thorough. . ."  
  
He looked up and glanced at his daughter, who was dutifully assisting him in recording observations made on the fighters before them, as she did every year.  
  
"Come to think of it, we should probably update those codes. . . Riddel, would you please make a note of that?"  
  
"Yes, Father." Riddel murmured, distracted. Her violet hued eyes flicked up and down as she alternated between watching the tournament and scribbling her version of the face-off in a leather-bound journal.  
  
"Aren't you going to do anything about it now?" Karsh asked.  
  
He winced and rubbed his own cheek as the nameless female below hoisted Glenn to a half-sitting position and began slapping him viciously with her free hand. The other one was being used to suspend him by hanging him by his hair. Her ornate gloves, which were as pretty as any pair Riddel had ever owned, were first smeared darkly with the slime of wet earth, then layered a faint pink as the Glenn's previous injury drizzled rivulets of color. The knitted lace trim fringing her wrist became speckled with garnet bits.  
  
"What hasn't she done? Is she going to start kicking him in the crotch next?" Dario groaned, awed.  
  
From where she was laboring over accounts, Riddel chimed a bell-like laugh, and made a mocking sign of the cross as she worked.  
  
"Well, in the matter of whether she will become recruited as dragoon is at an end." General Viper stated calmly in reply to Karsh's inquiry. He shook his head in pity for his olds friend's son, and mirrored Riddel's religious gesture, although his was a mite more sincere.  
  
"But since she isn't breaking any rules, the match goes on." He glowered agitatedly at Dario, who was anxiously leaning forward in his seat. Glenn was trying to wrench the keening girl off of him, but wasn't having much success.  
  
After another moment's struggle, Glenn appeared to give up completely and lapsed into a quivering huddle of hysterical laughter. His actions reflected the sentiments of the crowd completely, which seemed to be on the verge of a riot. People were throwing things into the ring, yelling taunting comments to both Glenn and his cosmetics-laden competitor, and appealing for a decision to be made the general by waving wildly at his specially built compartment.  
  
"What the matter with Glenn?" General Viper quipped sharply. "Why won't he fight back?" With an expression that said very clearly "Why aren't you training him right?" Dario slumped, embarrassed, into his seat under the scrutiny of his employer.  
  
"I don't know. Maybe because it's a woman?" he offered feebly.  
  
"Many of today's fighters are women. To refuse to strike any woman, especially one that is obviously out for you blood, speaks badly of your judgment. No dragoon should refuse to defend himself on the grounds that the fairer sex is exempt from retaliation."  
  
"Yessir." Dario mumbled weakly.  
  
"That is just stupidity."  
  
Dario gave the faraway Glenn a meaningful look that could easily be translated into "Kick her ass." even though the distance between them dispelled any hopes of him being able to see his face, even if Glenn wasn't so distracted.  
  
"Stupid." General Viper said under his breath. "But noble. Extremely stupid, yes, but still noble." He made another scratch on his black tome.  
  
Besides them the legs of Karsh's chair suddenly scraped against the glossy hardwood as he stood up and it was pushed back. The grating sound made Riddel jump, startled at the interruption of her intensive writing.  
  
"Damn!"  
  
"Karsh!" Riddel exclaimed severely, the glare of reproach in her gaze as she laid her stare on him. "I invited you and Dario here on the condition that you be quiet and allow us to concentrate.  
  
"Keep a civilized tongue." General Viper added a less scolding reprimand. He surveyed his daughter with a wry face, as if the mild profanity had somehow infected her with an illness. She rolled her eyes heavenward and clutched the dragon-skin volume to her chest, enunciated by baubles sown into a pattern on the material of her bodice. ***  
  
Meanwhile, Glenn had finally decided that the shame of being beaten by a woman far exceeded that of hitting one. His threw his hand out, hoping to just push her down so he could have a few moments to collect himself and retrieve his sword, but it just so happened that he couldn't do much of anything right while he was up against the fiery pixie.  
  
Her chest plate only went halfway up her breasts.  
  
*** "Oh dear." Riddel sighed.  
  
***  
  
The busty young girl yelped in shrill surprise and shot backwards a pace. On instinct she let go of Glenn, but that was only so she could swing back her petite hand and catch him full in the face. With a fresh smattering of red squirting out of his wounds on contact, Glenn was thrown down again. The muscles in her bare arms flexed as she bared her embroidered fists defensively.  
  
"You pervert!" she snapped at a perfectly normal volume for her. Which meant everyone could hear it.  
  
The legions of spectators immediately took up the call.  
  
"Pervert! Pervert!" Half of the crowd chanted enthusiastically as they would the name of a favored competitor.  
  
The others just tittered.  
  
*** "Did he just grope her?"  
  
"Yea." said Karsh, who had slunk back into his seat with a jaded expression.  
  
"Hm. That really should be another violation. Riddel, could you. . .?  
  
"Yes, father."  
  
Riddel wrote down another issue that would have to be resolved before next year.  
  
"We can't just end the match right now?" Dario asked, gray eyes narrowing in disgust as a few crows of "Child-molester!" was shouted down at his hapless little brother.  
  
/Give me a break. Glenn's only a kid himself. /  
  
"The match is only over when one of them is knocked out."  
  
***  
  
"What the hell were you doing?" she bawled. "This is a fight! Don't you know any respect?!"  
  
She stamped her foot with the air of a spoilt child throwing a tantrum. Her leather boot, dyed a vibrant scarlet, can down hard near his head, and would have crushed Glenn's skull if he hadn't twisted out of the way. A wave of the watery filth smacked against the Glenn's nose as she continued to kick up muddy puddles onto him.  
  
/Feminists usually cover up, don't they?/ Glenn thought crossly. From the very beginning she hadn't been shy about directing her cleavage towards the appreciative males in the stands.  
  
He tried to get up. As long as he was conscious, he was still in. Attempting to prop himself up on an aching arm, he sank wrist-deep into the sodden dirt, where he felt something thin and hard, pressing persistently against his palm. . .  
  
The reincarnation of Jezebel continued to harangue him mercilessly, voice creaky and hoarse from all the insults and screams she had brayed at him earlier, with one arm wrapped protectively around her upper body. ***  
  
"She really should just k'o him already." Karsh remarked.  
  
"Hush!" Riddel insisted, taking down notes in her book at a frantic pace.  
  
*** Glenn securely curled his fingers around the hilt of his recovered blade and brought it up with the all the strength of someone who had endured all the slapping, scratching, and pitchy tirades he could in half an hour.  
  
He didn't really swing it. He just threw the closest solid thing he could find at her full, lip-glossed mouth.  
  
The flat caught the side of her head with a sickening crack just as she was going on about how he should be dragged into the streets and publicly castrated.  
  
Her legs immediately gave way underneath her. Glenn held his breath, hoping that he wouldn't have to drive a stake through her heart to finally keep her yammering lips shut.  
  
She didn't get back up.  
  
With a shuddering sigh of relief, Glenn sat back properly in the mud, bringing his hands up to his bleeding cheeks and his knees up to his chest. He watched, bemused and gulping air from exhaustion, as his opponent's prominent chest went up and down like a ship bobbing in the water as she breathed evenly. Her cherubic face conveyed a sense of inner tranquility as she "slept", crimson bits of springy bangs strewn over her dirt-flecked eyelids. Perhaps she was dreaming about yelling at him.  
  
/So much cuter half-dead. / he thought.  
  
*** "What's their problem?" Dario snarled irritably as an influx of disappointed booing and disapproving hissing rained down upon Glenn, panting in the ring and checking his injuries.  
  
"They're not displeased with the victor, Dario. They just didn't want the match to end." General Viper informed him calmly. "Happens every year after the highlight of the tournament draws to a close." There was almost a hint of amused self-conversation in his voice as the general continued. "They act if this was merely entertainment."  
  
"To them, it is." Riddel said lightly, flawlessly lined eyes scouring the columns of text she had written down. "Most of them don't know or have forgotten that this is where we evaluate the city's youth for entry into the Dragoons."  
  
General Viper was not exactly a stringent leader, but he was succinct when admitting recruits. He was extremely prejudiced to any flaws that a man or woman's technique might show, and it was at the tournament where he sifted out those he might want to have trained as a Dragoon.  
  
That's why the tournament wasn't merely an event where youths waved their weapons at each other to entertain those who watched, but the most nerve- wracking experience that any person aspiring to be the next Garai or Radius had to overcome. After the tournament, which General Viper would watch attentively and take note of the best participants, those he had been impressed with would be asked to the manor to be audition for admission into the dragoons.  
  
"Sir, is Glenn?. . ."Dario trailed off uncertainly.  
  
"Glenn just made it past his first round. He has at least one more to go before I can make a decision upon him."  
  
"How does he look so far, then?"  
  
Riddel was laughing very softly beside him, and he didn't know why.  
  
"What exactly have I seen so far? There isn't a man in Termina that can't kick someone else in the stomach. Then all hell broke loose and the last thing even slightly combative that Glenn did was throw his sword at that woman."  
  
Karsh, who would have found that funny at any other time, frowned. It was most displeasing for him to hear those words, as true as they were. Dario had forced him to spend some extra training time with Glenn before the tournament so he could get some practice, and he had personally made sure that Glenn had exercised his offensive and defensive skills. Now it seemed like a waste.  
  
"Sir. . ."  
  
"Oh, are you complaining too now, Karsh? Don't worry, Glenn has another chance to prove himself."  
  
"And if he should chance upon an unorthodox opponent again, father?" Riddel inquired curiously.  
  
"Then there's next year." General Viper said dismissively. "It's not like Glenn's too old to try again. This is his first audition and he's only 15, at that."  
  
Dario made a sound close to a growl in his throat. General Viper only smiled indulgently at the vaguely disrespectful gesture, knowing full well that Dario was simply indignant for the sake of brotherhood.  
  
"But what are the odds, eh? Lets keep going on with the tournament."  
  
The standby paramedics were supporting Glenn as they escorted him to the medical facilities within the manor, where he would get a chance to be healed and rested before his turn to fight came back up again. Two were nominated to see to the discarded weapons and clean them before returning them to their owners, and several picked up the concussed loser to be transported to a different hospital, reserved for the eliminated.  
  
It had been Riddel's idea to separate the two groups of combatants. She didn't want any after-match unpleasantries to interfere with her treating of patients, whom she attended to herself during the intermission.  
  
"Dario, there will be 3 more matches before the recess. Now that Glenn's gotten past the preliminaries, he will have to fight again shortly. If you want to visit him in the hospital, you may do it now, but come back quickly."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank-you, sir." Dario responded.  
  
General Viper nodded, and then addressed his daughter.  
  
"Riddel, you are to see to those in the hospital of the left wing. Do your best to see that they are all brought up to the same state. There will be nurses to assist you, and I recommend you use elements instead of medication. We don't have much time."  
  
"Yes, father." Riddel obediently replied.  
  
Then he gave orders to Karsh, lounging by the window and watching the next two fighters (both females) set up.  
  
"Karsh, you'll be needed in the right wing hospital. No doubt that some of the wounded there are ready to wreak havoc after being knocked off in the first round. They might need forceful attention to keep them quiet while the doctors do their work. Several Dragoons will already be there to help you. Try to be gentle. Most of them are injured."  
  
"Try. . ." Karsh scoffed quietly. Then: "Yes sir!" aloud.  
  
After a nod of acknowledgment, General Viper lost interest in their two companions to watch the match unfolding beneath. He gave a reminding touch to his daughter's robed arm, and as she edged closer to the vast window, she gave a dismissive wave to her friends to tend to her duties as her father's assistant for the day. The pair of woman on the field seemed to be determined to conduct themselves as properly as possible after the debacle between Glenn and his feisty enmity, and were politely shaking hands and exchanging gracious smiles that expressed the core of chivalry.  
  
Karsh impatiently eyed the door as he slid down further in his antique seat. Dario grinned at his ill-concealed ennui, knowing full well that Karsh disliked having to be on his best behavior for extended periods of time. But the invitation to sit with the general and his daughter was a great honor that spoke of high favor; to decline was social suicide. It didn't do anything for your career either. So he had stayed.  
  
It was actually kind of strange, the general wanting more distractions when he had complained other years about the level of concentration. And that had been just with Riddel too, whose pristine manners allowed her to say nothing and breath softly for hours if she needed to. But Dario wasn't going to question it.  
  
"Seeya." He muttered lowly to Karsh. He got up (gingerly, as not to disturb the Viper family, who were intently tracking down every movement of the two fighters below.) and tread cautiously on the carpeted floor until he reached the entrance. Once out into the hall, he picked up the pace and sped towards the flight of stairs, the soles of his scuffed boots leaving dim echoes bouncing off the roughly hewn walls.  
  
***  
  
Yes, I have finally updated. I'm much too tired to make a big deal over fussing this very. . . unusual chapter, but that's pretty much the reviewer's job anyways. I will say that I have never written an epic before and finished, so if I'm going to go ahead and admit my low will power without shame and beg anyone out there who cares to give moral support so I can get through this.  
  
I guess the only reason I'm posting this is because of Dixxy. . . for months I'd convinced myself that it was futile to continue, simply because the prospect of a 20+ chapter fic seemed lethal. Upon discovering she still thinks about it, I'm went back to my writing career and spent a 4hour block tweaking and editing until I was ready to post the first official chapter of my fic. So thank you to her.  
  
I know have maybe a chapter and a half in storage besides this, so the next update will probably be up before the end of this moth, unless an unforeseen obstacle chews off my hands. Also, I know my writing style has been altered. I decided it wouldn't hurt to bring some humor into the parts that could use some. I can get all angst-y later. Tell me if you found it funny; it's my first try and if it's inane, I'll go back to being serious. I'm also out of practice, so . . . bear with me.  
  
If you have any remote interest in this, review. It'll probably be the only thing that'll keep me going with the writing . . . oh, and sorry for being so pathetic. Life experience takes its toll. . . or whatever. 


	2. Chapter 2

Shadowed Flight- Chapter 2, The Infiltrator and Medical Malpractice

Glenn had stripped down to his first layer of clothing and was sitting on a mattress, spread with fresh sheets. His shoes nestled against each other in a floppy, gooey brown heap and his socks, bloated with moisture and filth, were discarded beside them. He let his bare feet dry against the faint chill of the floor's rock tiles. Most of the men in the barracks weren't as educated about hygiene as he was. Half of them went around with a thriving metropolis of fungi between their toes just because they neglected to remove wet boots after a mission in the swamps.

It really wasn't that much of a bother, and he liked walking around in the house without shoes on. Dario had told him that if a colony of another species began to establish itself anywhere on his body, he was getting a place of his own. With a place as small as theirs, infection was easy to spread to the other.

Several nurses were fussing over him and shaking out streams of water in his shed armor nearby, agreeing animatedly between themselves about how the tournament should have been postponed until the after effects of the typhoon had had a chance to subside. With weather as unseasonably clammy and wet as it was, many of the participants were sure to catch the flu after frolicking in the thick tide of mud that was now the ring of the arena. Several were already sneezing miserably and curled in a fetal position in their own beds, being patted sympathetically by the physicians offering them handkerchiefs.

Glenn wondered why they were all milling around him. There was a flock dabbing at the barely bleeding tears marking the side of his face and checking over his scalp to make sure that a large hunk of it hadn't been torn out. It was pretty clear from initial examination that his scruffy hairstyle was intact, if not a bit dirty, so he couldn't understand what the big deal was. There was one that seemed to be lapsing into a sort of subtle hysteria right next to him, chuckling discreetly with a few giddy exclamations of "I won!" as he lay stiffly underneath the covers. There was a nasty purple egg rising out of his forehead, with drips of blood rolling down the sides of his face around it. No one was paying any attention to him at all.

"Is he okay?" Glenn asked the blond attendant blotting spots of red away from his cheek.

"Him? No, I supposed not. He came out of a close one, that one. They went for each other's head at exactly the same moment. It was just a matter of who could stay up the longest. She went down first, but it wasn't too long after that he followed. Course, he still won, as he stayed awake, as you can clearly see. . ."

Glenn watched as the young man blinked blearily at the light, each time leaving his eyes closed for a longer period of time.

"I think he's going to pass out." Glenn pointed out, pushing away yet another hand that was trying to layer gauze upon his cuts.

His suspicion was confirmed with the crackle of a loud snore.

One of the other nurses, an older, less flighty one, gave the barest glance in the direction of the wringing snorts.

"Disqualification, I suppose. Contenders must remain conscious throughout the tournament."

"He could wake up in time for his turn, though." Another argued disinterestedly.

Glenn grimaced as he felt a bruise being prodded by less than gentle fingers. "Aren't you going to wake him up?"

"When his turn's up, try, won't you?" One said to another, ignoring Glenn's question. " Nothing more than a nudge. Anything more would be breaking the rules."

"Yes. I will."

Irritated by the excessive attention, Glenn shoved and elbowed the crowd around him away so he could be left in peace. Realizing that he didn't need any more cosseting, they backed off and began to croon over a whimpering baby-faced teenage girl nearby, with two thick pigtails and a dislocated shoulder.

/There's two down. / Glenn told himself. This tournament wasn't that bad. Mostly he was just annoyed by the personality malfunctions of the competition. Out of the twenty or so warriors in here, there were only ten that Glenn seriously regarded as threats. These were the people that were as conscious and bored as he was, paging through books or cleaning their soiled equipment as they waited for the recess to be called.

"Hey. This sucks, doesn't it?"

Glenn turned to his other neighbor, the one that wasn't happily entertaining visions of victory in his slumbering brain while a lump throbbed above it.

The speaker was another teenaged boy, probably a year or so older than him. He had lanky, brassy blond hair the color of butter, above a set of eyes that were gray like Glenn's own, but were much darker. Upon a second's longer examination, Glenn realized that they were heavily flecked with black. Their strange texture reminded Glenn of chipped flint. The boy's face, while plain, had been made more characteristic by a field of freckles that anchored themselves across his cheeks and nose. There were even a few less distinctive ones on his badly chapped lips, which were bleeding slightly from cracks. Glenn noticed that his skin was pink and tender around the eyes and nose. It almost for certain he had been crying or had a horrible cold. But there was no tears or sniffs.

"Hey." Glenn responded agreeably, though cautiously. He didn't mind meeting new people, but sad people always made freeze up; he just wasn't very good at consoling. In fact, a while ago Riddel had told him that he ever saw someone crying, he should leave him or her alone and get her to help instead. He had a tendency to make things worse with his pessimism, she said. Something he knew better than to dispute after much trail-and error.

Also, he'd never seen this youth at school before. Glenn had graduated 3 years ago with the rest of his classmates, so he could begin his path to adulthood. Most of the male students were apprenticed by relatives; the girls were taken out of the educational/economical scene entirely and taught how to run a household by their mothers. A select few, gender regardless, were now residents at Viper Manor. They were servants or trainees for the Dragoon program. Few girls got out of the maid position, though.

It might have been a while, but Glenn still remembered the faces of all his peers. This one wasn't one of them. Also, he was clearly no tournament-goer judging by his simplistic, everyday task clothes.

While Glenn speculated the threat factor of the adolescent to himself, the half-grown person across of him just grinned, as if he could surmise Glenn's tension. He tucked a ragged bit of errant bangs (dry, unlike Glenn's) with skinny fingers behind his ear. His baggy clothing was an affront to the trained warrior; loose folds meant another thing that could be caught by enemies, some violations including long hair, beards, or ribbons. (a safety measure widely disregarded by the Dragoons, Karsh being a perfect example. The theory was you could just hack off the limb holding you.) Oversize was the current style for the teenage population of Termina, except for the 20 or so that thrived on the fad-like aspiration to be assimilated into the military mainstream. But Glenn couldn't help thinking that the boy's style of dress was very urchin-like; the open collar sagged and left one shoulder exposed, for heaven's sake.

It was unkind, but Glenn also noticed stains that didn't look like they had come from a recent fall. There were also several rips in the boy's sleeves that were frayed, meaning they were old and hadn't been mended, and a slight drag to his speech. It made Glenn wonder if maybe he was from one of the poorer sections of Termina.

"Are you supposed to be here?" It was blunt, but Glenn decided to risk it. Who cared whether or not he made a bad first impression? He'd most likely never encounter the other boy again.

"Well, no." The young man's cordial smile vanished; replaced by an uncomfortable twist in the corner of his mouth. "They haven't asked me yet, but I'd might as well tell you. . . Hey, you'll tell em' that I was honest, right? Leniency to those who confess, after all." He said hopefully.

Glenn felt himself get even queasier. There was definitely an air around this guy that screamed, "Does not belong"

"Ah. . . I'm in here because I'm an idiot, really." The boy stumbled a little, a convincing embarrassment seeping onto his features. Glenn's face was willed into blankness as he listened to him speak. "My. . . friends dared me to sneak into Viper Manor and take something back to show them as proof I did it. I tried, only I fell. . . after I climbed up over the wall. You know, where the vines are and everything. . . " (Glenn darkly a made a note of advising general Viper to remedy that security flaw.)

"I think I sprained my ankle. Well, I was yelling, and my friends just started saying things to each other about 'getting the hell out of here' so these dragoon guys came over to where I was. They carried me in here, because they thought I'd be an easy victim for the sore losers in the other ward and um. . . they fixed me up, and that's why I'm here." He finished. Glenn didn't get why he had such an uneasy look. Was he lying? They story seemed credible; just fantastic enough to be true, but not too over the top or blatantly simple. If it was the truth, was would he be so nervous?

The unsettled pretense carried on to the boy hastily reaching down and yanking up his pant's leg, showing his braced foot to Glenn. Glenn just noticed the dirty, aligned footwear tucked underneath the metal bed frame of the teenager's Spartan cot. He also saw the painful swelling beneath the boy's thin calf.

"It's true, see . . .? So um . . . could you quit looking at me like that?" He asked anxiously.

"Oh." So that was it. Glenn suddenly realized how he must have looked, scowling in disproval and with articles of prudish armor stranded up upon his blanket. He was obviously a strong adherent of general Viper and his military forces, being a contestant in the officer's sponsored tournament. Most likely the boy was afraid that he'd take it upon himself to discipline a defiant delinquent. Glenn couldn't help feeling a little abashed.

When he had been little and poking around on the Viper estate, he'd always be intercepted by a guard on duty and interrogated. He had been only a child, and although it was true most of the time mischief was his chief intent, he'd always felt it had been cruel of the stationed lookouts to grill anyone, even toddlers, that seemed out of place. He hadn't had anywhere else to go while Dario was in training, or worked, which was why he had taken to loitering at doorways, examining the artwork on the architecture. (and possibly drawing out a pencil from his pocket for some second –degree graffiti.) After Dario had straightened things out, he'd always feel ashamed of being so scared, although Glenn was sure anyone would after being jerked around by burly muscleman and yelled at with a number of words he didn't yet have in his vocabulary. Words like "subterfuge", or "espionage"

This teenager hadn't meant any harm, even though he had been going to steal something. People their age played at these stupid games all the time. At least he wasn't an assassin or something.

Glenn licked his lips, trying to think of something to say that would qualify as both a reprimand and reassurance. It was unlikely the boy would get into serious trouble once he'd told the regulators his story, but Glenn would have liked to discourage it with exaggerated consequences, as a precaution.

"You know, it was good idea for you to try it today. I mean, everyone's all busy with the tournament, the grounds and manor are almost entirely empty." Glenn winced at his own stupidity. That hadn't been the right thing to say. . .

The boy didn't seem to think so. "Yeah, I already thought of that!" He said, brightening. "My friends were all impressed when I told them that. But still." He said, glooming right up again. "I failed. They'll make fun of me forever. And I was caught, so they're probably going to do something horrible to me now, right?" the question was filled with apprehensive dread.

"Yeah, maybe." Glenn chose the most appropriate response he could conjure. Not a lie, but definitely ominous. Then he felt his guilt acting up. This had all too many similarities to when he had been a little boy, fearing that the dragoons would throw him into the infamous Viper dungeon, where tools of torture, leftover from the dark ages, were in storage.

" Well, er. . . no." he amended grudgingly, cursing his sentimentalism. "They'll probably just let you go." He hastily added: "But if you're caught snooping around again, there won't be a second warning."

"That still leaves my friends. . ." the youth said slowly. Glenn could have sworn that he was more worried about his friend's jeers than any punishment the governing foundation could have meted out.

Glenn sighed. He wasn't a big on socializing himself. His opinion was that no one should want to associate themselves with assholes that were constantly evaluating your worth, like a pet dog's loyalty. He felt like telling the other boy to forget the friends who left him to his fate and maybe give them a boot in the butt if they made any snide comments. But Dario had warned him a while ago to tolerate others who enjoyed human contact.

So instead, Glenn undid a chain, linked to the army standard tag looped around his neck.

"Here" he said, offering it in an outstretched clenched fist. "Say you went into the barracks and snuck it out of a sleeping Dragoon's pocket. That should impress your friends."

The thin plate was a pass for citizens to come and go through the wing where Dragoon business was conducted. Very few were ever issued to anybody, for confidentiality's sake. All the dragoons had one, in case they were out of uniform but had urgent business at headquarters. It was identification that bore no name. Dario was easily recognizable, being the town celebrity, and the pass had become obsolete for him. He had bequeathed it to Glenn, so he could reach his brother's rooms without harassment, unlike their early years at the manor. It had been useful these past few years, but. . . If all went according to plan, Glenn would have his own soon, anyways. It was a vote of self-confidence, if nothing else.

The other boy's jaw dropped so far down that Glenn was treated to a lovely view of his tonsils.

"Are you serious?" the query was obviously rhetorical, as he made a greedy swipe at the key to the El Nido stronghold.

"Of course." Glenn contradicted himself by snatching it back. "Gimme a sec, ok?

He pulled a pocket knife out of the sleeve of his tunic, presently draped over the bedside like a piece of dirty laundry, which it technically was, being sullied by puddle water and dirt. (But Glenn would have to redress in it later for the upcoming round.) Swiftly, he dug two overlapping gashes in between the "a" and "d" of the inscription of "acacia dragoons", so that tiny "x" was formed. That made it invalid, so that if the young man ever returned with an illegal destination in mind, the guards would detain him immediately. He then tossed it deftly to the other boy, the flashy sheaf of steel winking as it arced in its flight.

No one else knew what mark signified outside of the dragoons. It would still amaze the boy's companions, as the "X" had been made neatly enough so that it appeared as it the manufacturer had wanted it on there for decoration.

The boy caught it one handed and in a fluid motion stuffed it into his pocket.

"Thanks!" he exclaimed. And then, as an afterthought: "I'm Leo."

"Glenn." Glenn replied simply, relieved that Leo had finally named himself. He had been getting tired of calling him "the boy" in his mind.

"So… Uh… how'd you do in your match?" If Leo was trying to strike up a conversation, it wasn't something that Glenn was willing to humor; he'd never been a fan of idle chitchat, even if was going to be on an interesting topic.

"I'm not dead. I've achieved all imaginable goals." He said sarcastically. He winced as an abrasion on his cheekbone began to permeate pain through his face, as if in complaint of the lack of medication.

"Me too." Leo shot back, smirking. "I thought I was going to get it for sure. . . which is why I thought I'd better not risk escaping. But you know, these military types. . . They see someone like me and they don't bother with questions. . ."

Glenn stared at him blankly. This time, he was genuinely confused, and wasn't faking it.

Leo hesitated, and then grinned. "Yeah. I know it sounds weird. But come on, just look at me. My clothes are. . . and you know, I'm a little weird in the eyes. And sometimes my tan comes in unevenly, which makes me look either dirty or patterned. So sometimes I get poor trash, or even demi-human."

"Er. . ." Glenn felt tongue-tied. Sure, Termina had its bad spots in town where not everyone was as well off as what could be considered normal, especially the demi-human district. But those scruffy-looking people out in the streets, he'd never had a reason to talk to them and so never had. There were times when he saw them being pushed around, bullied, usually by bored teenagers or young, arrogant Dragoons- but he'd seen them sneaking things off the shelves at stores, too. It balanced out, but mostly he didn't think about it much.

Leo winked. "Nah, I'm full-human. But I get a lot bull, especially from the Dragoons. But sooner or later we'll get out from under their thumb. . .They can't expect us to be suppressed by them forever, we're not like the older generation that's into the whole chivalry and hierarchy crap. . . we see tyrants, we fight tyrants, right, Glenn?"

"Um, not me." Glenn retorted with a wry smile. "I'm part of the foundation you're planning to revolt against. Or I will be. Or I might."

The pair of dark eyes narrowed in distaste. "So you mean you're in this thing to get into the Dragoons?"

Glenn was a bit surprised; what Dario said was true, not many people were ware that General Viper used the tournament as a dignified guise for talent scouting.

"Yeah. . ."

With a sigh, Leo surveyed the rest of the fighters damaged in various extents in the room.

"Looks like most of em' are out for the count." He said critically as he apprised each remaining member of the tournament. His expression was flooded with exasperation, as if he couldn't fathom why there were so many self-nominated candidates for the selective military program.

He manipulated the angle of his head upon his neck awkwardly so he could look directly at Glenn. Glenn prayed that he wouldn't misalign his spinal cord.

"You know." He said thoughtfully, but with a sigh. " You've got a pretty good chance of winning this thing, don't you?. Well." He straightened. "I'll be rooting for you. Not" He continued. "That I have any interest in this kind of thing, and I won't be watching."

"Thanks." Glenn stated cryptically. "I'm sure your inspiration will tide me over to victory.

"My." A nurse butted in with a huge, vapid smile of scarlet-rouged lips. Glenn hoped to God she wouldn't be the one treating him. Thankfully, all she did was press a towel into his hands and tousle his tunic with one of her own, to get it to an acceptable level of dryness. As Glenn started mopping the stinging mess off his face, she started babbling about how the tournament allowed young people to forge new friendships. Glenn had to stifle a rather rude snort at her optimistic interpretation of the tournament's purpose; for the past few minutes he'd been trying to justify breaking the legs of the red-head he'd just gone up against. No jury would convict him.

Leo also seemed repulsed by her banter.

"These nurses don't seem too professional." He commented as soon as she was out of earshot and enforcing her commiseration upon a twitchy man with an arm in a sling.

Glenn nodded, hoping Riddel would be his doctor.

A rather mistrustful thought suddenly occurred to Glenn as Leo began whistling the El Nido anthem played at the beginning of the tournament. The musicians were so enthusiastic to do their bit for patriotic show that it was deafening to anyone in the vicinity.

"Hey, Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Why weren't you and your friends watching the tournament? They must be about the only people in Termina who don't."

Leo gave him an irritated scowl. "Are you kidding? Have you been listening to anything I've been saying? The Dragoons are a bunch of assholes, anything related to them is crap. Yeah, like I'm really going to cheer on the people who think I'm scum on their shoe- No offense to you, but you obviously don't know a lot about the people who live in worse parts of Termina. The demi-humans and the trash get one day off a year from the docks, because everything in town is on hold for the tournament- we'd rather spend it sleeping in and walking through the streets where for once there aren't any Dragoons to give us dirty looks. Besides, we really don't think it's all that great to watch people play at life or death, when we've got things like just living to worry abou-"

"Ok, I get it!"

/Geez, this guy is weird./ Who didn't like organized violence?

"Tidy up your things, dearie!" chirped a nauseatingly happy medical practitioner. She pointed to Glenn's armor, which didn't have a square inch of brassy metal left uncovered by grime. " You'll be out there soon! You don't want to shame your fans, looking all dirty, don't you?"

"Arghhhhh…" It was hard to believe that Riddel worked with these people on a regular basis.

"Is something the matter, dearie? Maybe it's time we got some salve for those bruises. We're not supposed to fix you up until right before your turn, but you're just such a sweetie, it'll our secret, ok?"

"Ugh, NO! Um, later is fine."

The nurse tittered and patted Glenn's had as if he were a precocious five-year old.

"Such a self-righteous boy! I'll be sure to tell the General how much you like following the rules. He'll want you in the Dragoons for sure!"

Glenn groaned and buried his face in his hands. Then someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up. Leo had on a sympathetic expression and was patting him on the back.

"So that's the point of your fighting today, huh? You want join the Dragoons so you can uphold the rules for the rest of your life?"

There was a funny sensation sticking itself right into Glenn's chest, as if his organs had just inverted themselves.

"What do you mean?"

"You're ready to just take orders until the day you die? Which probably won't be very far off, considering what you're going to be doing."

No one Glenn had ever known spoke about the Dragoons in that light. They were the peacekeepers and defenders of the people, who did everything they could to ensure that chivalry lived on and. . . well, it just sort of went on in that direction. There weren't many people who couldn't recite the gist of the Dragoon handbook by heart. Even if you didn't like a single power controlling all aspects of a nation's function, that wasn't what the Dragoons did; there was another branch of law enforcement that was in charge of little violations. The Dragoons went to war to defend their country, and sought out the perpetrators of truly heinous crimes, such as rape or murder. What was wrong with that?

"Ah, Glenn. . . I pity you so. You've been brainwashed by the masses. Not to mention your brother and nobleman friends."

"What the hell are you- wait, my brother? Nobleman friends?" Glenn caught himself in mid-snarl. The impact of Leo's words crash-landed onto Glenn's senses. Plenty of people knew of him, through Dario; no stranger had the right to be aware of his friendship with the Viper family. General Viper was adamant about suppressing the knowledge of Dario's relationship with his daughter until the timing was right, so they could avoid any controversy on favoritism.

"Everyone knows your esteemed older brother, Dario. He has a little brother named Glenn and their family was part of the rich elite until both parents passed away and the fortune was lost though conniving relatives. Their longtime associates in the Dragoons offered their condolences, but no one stepped up to take care of them. So they had to work to regain their rank, but for some reason as they were being exploited by the aristocrats they slaved for, they still blindly believed in the system that had abandoned them." Leo's tone wasn't mocking, exactly; but it was an insult to everything Dario had taught Glenn; people had to fight their way through their misfortune, and they shouldn't beg for help from anyone.

"That's not. . ." Glenn struggled to formulate an argument, but there was way too much to absorb. Almost no one knew the story behind his and Dario's past, especially the bit about the crooked kinsmen and Dario having to work extra jobs while training. And it wasn't like Leo wasn't voicing the bitter thoughts he's sometimes had while younger, but now things were different. Dario had brought their family name back into recognition, and it was only a matter of time before Glenn did his part and achieved status in the Dragoons. " How did you. . .?"

Leo tilted his head as if awaiting Glenn's verdict on his interpretation of his life. "I think I'd better go and let you think that over." His tone flippant. Then: "I might be waiting for you after the tournament, hope you win. . . sort of." He said lightly.

"But your foot. . ." Glenn said stupidly.

"Fight, right?" Leo grinned.

Leo glanced uninterestedly around the room once more before quickly yanking on his shoes and sliding onto his feet. He bent a little on his good foot, but otherwise showed no discomfort while he regained his balance. Then he ducked out into the corridor without a backwards glance. Glenn had a feeling that he wasn't going to take the main exit; in any case, he'd just met a strange, strange person with an unnerving amount of background information on him.

As he was wondering, he felt a touch of something greasy being applied onto his wound by firm fingertips.

Fully prepared to swat away another pesky healer, Glenn whirled around with a caustic demand to be left alone already in mind. There was enough whirling around in his mind without adding the suppression of his fury at the idiocy of the people that called themselves "doctors"

"Dario?"

_Blah, I wanted to revise this but I've worked so long on it already I'm too drained to get it to sound right. I'll improvise later on. I am also in possession of both my hands. What I lack is the motivation to write. I am truly sorry to anyone who's been trying to follow this, but I am so burned out! I can't even call myself a proper fan of CC anymore, and I was once such an avid follower too… that's how I've been able to think up all these rules for the Dragoons. But it's been at least 2 years since I've played the game, my memory of it is dim… I will have to kick myself to keep this going. I really will._


End file.
